


The Russian Patient

by edhelsindar, flournox



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-20 12:12:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1510031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edhelsindar/pseuds/edhelsindar, https://archiveofourown.org/users/flournox/pseuds/flournox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>St.Petersburg Love Story, Romance in Decembrist Revolt, Excepts from World's Romance Poetry and the Limitation of Bourgeoisie Revolutions, Russian version of Meteor Garden(if you know what I mean), or:</p>
<p>Sub-lieutenant Evgeni Plushenko sets out from St.Petersburg to escort Lady Elena Pavlova to Solovetsky, since she has finally been permitted to join her Decembrist fiancé up north. As their destination draws near, Evgeni is once again assaulted by his past memories, for he was asked to deliver a package to a man he knew too well of, and to carry out a secret order he must not disobey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Farewell

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [俄罗斯病人](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/46334) by Anonymous. 



> Disclaimer: We do not own the characters, the story (the original author does) nor the excerpted poems.
> 
> The story itself is complete, the translation is ongoing.

I love you, Peter’s great creation,

I love your view of stern and grace,

The Neva wave’s regal procession,

The grayish granite – her bank’s dress…

Pushkin, _The Bronze Horseman_

 

One hundred years ago, summoning boulders from all of the country, Peter the Great had bricked up this city towards the seas; it was the firmest of Russia, the adamant of the land aggregated into this magnificence.

This is St. Petersburg of 1833’s autumn, one marvelous season of this city. The yellowish grey of leaves spreads across the banks of the Neva, the golden of fall fields surrounds the unyielding fort, and colorless rain drops from the colorless sky.

On Senate Square, the heart of this unyielding city, the hooves of Peter the Great’s mount bolts high towards the zenith. Underneath the bronze statue, carriages speeds by with the finest wine, farmers sings aloud with the loudest voice, the stray plays the folklore with an accordion, mothers hurries about with the sourest faces, and drunken man sits on the sidewalk, his cries carrying far and unheard.

A young officer stands in the middle of this mass, his head high, his body slim, his white uniform clothing him in the manner of the finest suit. The slightest mist hangs onto his golden hair and brows as he eyes the fearless statue, as if reading a long, long poem, or expecting a lover to descend from the heavens.

The city brightens in layers as touches are lighten, and someone calls from a window, “oh darling, have you lost your love?”

The roars of laughter do not bother Evgeni. A carriage stops by his side, and he wraps his coat tight about himself as he steps in.

“To Ms. Elena Pavlova’s mansion.” He orders, and momentarily places his hand on his chest. The secret command lies silently in the pocket below, yet it burns him, like a piece of glowing red coal.

 

The mansion of Elena Pavlova is this city’s one true palace. Every weekend, carriages flood like the waters of the Neva before the gates, and their lighten lamps become a stream of stars.

Tonight, this glowing river is ever long and wide. Mistresses, poets, officers and lords alike, they all dressed to the nines, coming to honor the princess of high society St. Petersburg.

The long line of pilgrims moves fast forward in the autumn drizzle. As gloriously dressed they are, as grim and saddened they seem, and this strange queue proceeds onwards, stepping on moist earth, the fragrance following their path.

Elena Pavlova stands in the center of her palace. The light from chandelier falls upon her, and washes over her emerald dress and the white rose in her dark brown bangs.

She is 25 years of age, but still carries the delightfulness of a girl in her teens. The full moon upon the Neva is her face, yet childish sarcasm carries along the lines of dark eyes and sweet lips, and even the tip of her nose shows off a naive pride.

The pilgrims come before her one after another, they kiss her in greeting, and she reciprocates with a calm and controlled posture. Nothing is out of the ordinary, but everyone knows she is driven and possessed by something strong and powerful, something like a giant wind case, blowing fire underneath her eyes.

Evgeni moves forwards with the line. The scent of rose is faint in this autumn night, faint as a ghostly passion, intangible, unpredictable. He observes Elena, and eight years of time rewinds, she was the proud girl with her head held high as she walks past the cadets, throwing out of her window all the poems and roses she had received from many of them.

Elena spots Evgeni, and she smiles in the usual sarcastic way, swiftly seeks him out in the crowd, holds her hand before him and says his name, “Zhenya.”

Someone cuts in all of a sudden, falling to Elena’s feet and kissing the brim of her dress. It is a man in his thirties, drunk and brightly red, hair bursting everywhere, but his voice is lively, full of pain and passion, a bitterness in flames:

“ _The last I’ll hear of your sweet voice,_

_Shall be my only treasured idol,_

_My soul’s one solitary love._ ”

The officer nearby quickly gets hold of the mad poet, and reminds him in a whisper, “Master, it’s better not to speak.”

But the poet continues, pitch loud and spirit high:

“ _Then heavy chains fall by the board,_

_Then dungeons crack—and freedom's voices_

_Will greet you at the gate, rejoicing,_

_And brothers hand to you a sword._ ”

The officer flashes white as the rose before his chest, and he takes the man without a hilt.

Elena reaches out to Evgeni once again, and raises her cup in front of the gathering crowd.

“My dearest friends, this shall be our last dance. By tomorrow, this land shall not have Elena Pavlova of St. Petersburg. I walk towards joy, so let me not take away yours. Even the omnipotent Peter the Conqueror shall not have stopped the wheels of our fate. Let poems, love and music continue to roam this city!”

She downs the wine and with a wave, waltz fills the hall. She grabs Evgeni’s arm and swings in a fury, the crowd bursting out in cheers. White petals of rose dance about the palace.

 

“All hail his majesty, for letting you escort me.” Elena says in delight as she places her hands on Evgeni’s arm, her excitement even covering the sarcasm. They avoid the roaring crowd in the study upstairs, where Elena’s suitcases sit in a tidy pile. The drunken poet lies on the couch as he blabbers nonsense some more.

“I’m sorry, the master is drunk again.” The officer says in grim, helpless at the situation.

“No worries, you’re just following his majesty’s order to oversee him, right? Poets are the purest of children, who wouldn’t love them? A body easily contagious to passion, a heart never choosing the correct but the right, a energy couldn’t even be worn out. Wouldn’t you say so, Evgeni?” She turns to Evgeni, brows rising in her clever way.

Evgeni stands with his arms folded back, pretending not to understand what she speaks.

“Oh, Evgeni!” The poet suddenly rises from the couch, face glowing in redness, “What a name, Evgeni!”

He jumps up and rushes to Evgeni’s side, seizes his shoulders tight and examines his face with earnest. The young sub-lieutenant is a typical Slavic, all sharp lines and melancholic curves, hair of the softest gold, eyes of bluish grey, and lips of pride and mockery.

The poet laughs, pulls his own hair and yells, “Yes! Yes! It’s Evgeni! It’s Evgeni!”

And then as if hit by his own words, he falls and lands straight on the rug and starts to murmur nonsense again.

Elena signals the officer with her hand, and the passionate poet is once again moved to the couch.

She opens the windows leading to the balcony and steps out, and raindrops find her, winds blow apart her deep brown hair, and her emerald dress flaps in waves. She faces the darkness, leaves behind the light, her arms and neck lay bare, but still and straight she stands.

Then she stretches comfortably, and asks, “Wouldn’t the skies of St. Petersburg be a moody child, compared to Solovetsky?”

Evgeni does not reply. The princess of St. Petersburg speaks of a name to the faraway north, “Sasha.”

The stormy night of the city shakes as the wind carries the name afar. As if an age-old wine cellar is opened, the scent of the past creeps by, stirring up memories of unspeakable names in its wake. But under the cold and broad skies of St. Petersburg, Evgeni could not voice a thing.

（Main translator: flournox)


	2. Departure

Thus, by a straining of strong will,

a frantic passion we subdue,

endure disaster with proud soul,

and sweet woe with hope;

but how ... to comfort

heartache, the frantic heartache.

Pushkin, Deleted draft of _Onegin’s Album_ from _Eugene Onegin_

 

 

The carriage fleets, leaving St. Petersburg further and further behind, and the wilds surround them now, bushes and forest hug the vast plain like a yellowish fog.

Evgeni and Elena sit on opposite sides. He examines her, and she is still the beautiful doll, wrapping herself in white silk and blue ribbons, humming songs of joy as she reads a novel and snacks from her white packet.

Her happiness is almost a sting in his eyes.

“Solovetsky does not have desserts.” He crosses his arms and quietly reminds her.

She clasps the book close and looks at Evgeni almost laughingly: “Sub-lieutenant, do you honestly expect me to beg you midway, oh please take me back to St. Petersburg?”

She places the book on her lap, and rests her chin in one hand while the other draws meaningless circles on the cover, the sarcasm returning to the curve of her lips, “Zhenya, who do you love the most in this world?”

“My mother.“

”Well, if someone told you, mister, you could own everything this second - the empire of endless realm, the power only second to God, the riches coming in like waves of the sea, the beauties countless you wouldn’t bed the same one twice, ever last your honors with the Caucasus, ever last your legends with the poems, ever lasts your life with the stars - but in return, you will lose your mother, would you still take it?”

Evgeni only watches her calmly, “I have already lost my mother, and would trade everything you said for her to come back again.”

Apologetically, Elena takes Evgeni’s hands, “You see, Zhenya, the world often mislabels happiness and despair. The freshly-picked roses, the softest of silks, the passionate love poems, the endless music, cloth from Paris, Waltz from Austria, a warm and comfy fireplace, some desserts with cream, all of them, they bring happiness, obviously, but they could not cure your soul of the heartache deep down.”

And as she finishes, she holds his hands even tighter, “You could subdue passion with will, overcome disasters with pride, sweeten woe with hope, but the heartache, that frantic little thing, it holds you, seizes you, takes you.”

Evgeni avoids her gaze, “You speak like Sasha now, poetic.”

And with that Elena knocks her head all of a sudden, “Poet! Oh how could I have forgotten!”

She retrieves a package from her luggage, “The master has asked me to give you this, he hopes you are willing to pass it on to our old friend.”

Evgeni inspects the package, it was white sheets wrapped with strings, and within the enveloped sheets seems to be even thicker layers of paper.

Elena watches his puzzled expression with near exasperation, ”Oh Zhenya, do you honestly not know who the master is?”

He grimaces, and Elena holds her arms before her, shaking her head, “Sometimes, I don’t feel like we live in the same country.”

Evgeni does not flare up at her mocking tone, he just takes the package, “To whom should I hand this?”

And instantly the sarcasm washes over like the waves of Neva, and she answers, in the particular proud and clever way of St. Petersburg’s highborn mistresses, “Lyosha.”

There was a couple of seconds, where Evgeni was lost in a momentary world of deafness, no more thumps of horse shoes, not more screeches of wind, no more clattering of leaves, their volume all evaporated. He feels almost inclined to throw away the damn package and yell in Elena’s face, but he controls the urge, wills it down, stuffs the thing away in his bag, and stares outside the window instead.

Elena rests in her seat and picks the book up again, pages are flipped as she carelessly says, “And I thought I might see you cry, too bad.”

Evgeni closes his eyes, “It would take another month to get to Solovetsky, you have plenty of time.”

 

The second year after Napoleon’s fall at Moscow, Alexander II evaded Paris in the name of “Liberator”, claiming that he does not bring hostility but peaceful trades. But on another level, Paris was the true conqueror, for all the mighty Cossack riders and fiercely destructive gunpowder combined could not hilt the invasion of Parisian culture. Military officials were overtaken by Montesquieu, by Rousseau, Voltaire, Saint-Simon and the Freemasonry, soaking up the waters of knowledge like the dried-up sponges they were, their lives becoming moist and dense.

The army of men that came to “teach Paris a lesson” had since become a stream of humbled learners.

Marching to Paris as part of the “Liberating army”, Evgeni’s father did not make it to his destination, falling dead in the ruins of Smolensk.

The tenth year after losing his father, barely sixteen of age, Evgeni stood before Colonial Alexei Nikolayevich Mishin, tumbling slightly, as nervous as a teenage boy could be.

The Colonial was a mid-age man, going bald and plump, but his voice was steady and firm, leaving no room for retorts, an ever-running river. After his majesty’s grand return from Paris, officers have all been preoccupied by the poetry, the opera, the music, the philosophy, the love that flowed in the air, for they have found themselves in a whole new spiritual world - but Colonial Mishin was stern and immovable as always, he stayed in his room, and prayed as usual.

“Zhenya, there’s no turning back, now.” Those were the first words he received from Colonial Mishin.

“Your father was a hero. You shall follow his path from here and become an honorable soldier, royal to our country, royal to his majesty. Stay away from temptation and corruption, and you’d be an honest man. You will have to prove yourself worthy of your name, not only for you, but your mother as well.”

Evgeni’s body visibly shook as the Colonial mentions his mother, the image of her fragile fingers fixing his clothes under poor candle light flashed before his eyes, and so does the weak fires in the hearth and the windows in the attic that could never be closed; they chased him like a shadow.

The Colonial seemed to have seen through his momentary weakness, and so he patted on Evgeni’s shoulder, “For the sake of your mother, Zhenya, be the best soldier I’ll ever teach.”

Zhenya straightened his posture even more, nodded in silence, and with a salute he made his leave. But when he reached the door, he heard the Colonial calling his name, as if suddenly remembering something he should remind him of, “Zhenya.”

He turned, and the Colonial spoke almost hesitantly, “Zhenya, those dandies of the old houses… just stay clear of them.”

(Main translator: flournox)


	3. The Bet

Formed by vanity, he possessed still more

of that species of pride that leads one to confess to

good and evil actions with a like indifference, due to a sense of

superiority which is perhaps merely imagined.

Pushkin, _Eugene Onegin_

 

The pleasant trembles of the carriage subsides as it comes to a stop, and Evgeni opens his eyes to the late rays of sunshine leaking past the mountain lines. Through the soft thin curtains he recognizes the silhouette of trees and houses.

“Why are we stopping in a town?” He asks Elena, who had been preoccupied with her dress.

She draws the curtains up, “Zhenya, have you forgotten?”

In the beautiful autumn sunset of northern Russia, Evgeni finds himself staring at a familiar vault.

The Cathedral of Holy Sophia.

He cannot help but mouth the name, “Novgorod.

Elena curves her lips slightly. “Care to accompany me for a prayer, sub-lieutenant?”

Evgeni does not reply, nor does he leave his seat. Only his eyes follow Elena, until she disappears behind the gates of Holy Sophia.

In the shadows of the most ancient cathedral of this most ancient land, the young officer sits straight and square, clutching his hands before his chest and lowering his head as the last glow of daylight fades.

He prays.

 

The first time Evgeni saw the vault of Holy Sophia was in Lyosha’s drawing.

White scrap papers were flying everywhere when he entered his dorm room. Black ink blobs had dotted the floor, a dozen empty wine bottles were laying by the fireplace, and a drunkard was sketching wildly in the mess of this all, his golden brown hair dancing in rhythm.

Evgeni didn’t bother with his roommate; instead he headed straight to his bed. But a crumpled paper ball hit him on the neck, and he heard the drunkard behind him ask. “So you’re the bumpkin, eh? The one who followed the Colonel back from the north?”

Evgeni remained silent, and so came the second paper ball, then the third, the fourth. He turned and something cold and solid hit him straight on the forehead instead, falling to the ground with a crisp sound.

It was a gold ruble.

The drunkard pelted a golden ruble at him, Evgeni found that unacceptable.

“Hey, bumpkin, you up for a bet?”

The drunkard looked up at him, and he had quite a fair face. His brown pupils were mixed with a light grayish green, fueled with passion from the vodka; lines of laughter marked the corner of his eyes, but he still looked too young, too proud. He rubbed his hands on his lips, and ink smeared across them.

He was the romantic, climbing upon his lover’s balcony; he was the fearless, marching into a duel for love. He was the center of his poem and story, prose and legend - the arrogant and irrational, the one you could not refuse.

And the arrogant drunkard pointed outside the window. “Hey bumpkin, if you beat me to the ‘Fat Anna’, that gold ruble’s yours.”

Evgeni gazed out to that direction, and saw “Fat Anna” the cannon on the Academy’s square - the cadets liked to name their weapons. He looked down again at the coin, the coin that would save his mother six month of work, six month free of fable candle light, of tired eyes, of sowing to the wee hours of morning.

“And if you beat me?” Evgeni asked.

The drunkard wobbled a little as he raised himself to his feet, buttoning up his white shirt he said, “then you get to clean my room for a month.”

Not a bad deal, Evgeni thought, he was drunk, he’d be slow, and Evgeni would beat him easily. The new cadet nodded and headed to the door.

The drunkard wobbled to the window instead, laughed in the wildest manner, and then jumped.

He’s a lunatic, Evgeni thought.

When he rushed to the windowsill, the drunkard had his hands on the roof of the floor below him. He smirked at Evgeni, his face shined in the winter sunlight.

Without much thinking, Evgeni leaped from the window as well.

 

It was a usual winter morning in the Academy, until the whole school witnessed the absurd fight between two cadets hanging out on the walls of the dorm.

Evgeni saw the drunkard come at him in a frantic laughter, his shirt torn and dangling on his shoulders, his pretty face marked by a couple of scratches. He avoided the lunatic’s kicks, and slowly moved himself to a protruding stone column, sliding down and making his descend bit by bit.

The drunkard hilted only for a second, then he raised both of his hands and pointed at Evgeni, mirroring a perfect gunshot.

Evgeni watched his golden brown hair flapping furiously as he fell straight to the snow covered ground.

As the drunkard stumbled to the Fat Anna, Evgeni heard the crowd of cadets roaring in laughter and cheers and the drunkard’s hateful voice, “Go wipe the floor, bumpkin!”

Cadet Alexei Konstantinovich Yagudin and cadet Evgeni Viktorovich Plushenko were punished to wipe all of the cannons for violating the code of conduct. As Alexei had wounded his legs, Evgeni cleaned all of the cannons. Since he also lost the bet, Evgeni cleaned the dorm for a month as well.

During the cleaning, Evgeni noticed that his obnoxious roommate had drawn a church vault on every piece of paper, the ink sinking into the table and floor.

Well, he thought, at least the lunatic was a faithful follower.

(Main translator: flournox)


	4. Love and Hostility

For me, praise from others is like ash,

from you, even abuse is praise

Akhmatova, _Couplet_

 

“I cannot be sure of God’s existence,” said Alexei when he was resting his wounded leg in bed.

Evgeni, on the other hand, was quietly collecting all the disheveled book pages on the ground, reminiscence from their latest fight last night. Alexei had attempted to smash him with a book, which missed its target, hit the wall and spread out its pages on the floor. Well aware that the one-month bet had not reached its deadline, Alexei even flung an inkbottle onto the floor, accompanied by a piece of cheese half-bitten just for the effect.

“That’s only because you haven’t met anything you should be grateful for, Lyosha. When you do, you’ll believe in God’s omnipresence,” said Alexander Abt, a friend of Alexei. He was a handsome young man who loved poetry; his spirit, free and wild, could be easily captured by frantic and fiery passion, but was also gentle as the weald of March, believing in all, having hope in all.

“You treat your love like the gospel, Sasha, and your arrogant Elena Pavlova is indeed a lofty goddess; she commands your dedication, but would only render you despair,” Alexei turned his head and spoke to another cadet, “Ilyushenka, wake this dreamer up!”

This young man was Ilia Kulik, another friend of Alexei’s. He was maroon-haired with a fair countenance only slightly freckled. He had an air of alienation, but always followed Abt and Alexei closely.

Kulik was aloof, and somewhat melancholy. Alexei often said that he was a pessimistic skeptic as well as an anarchist.

If there were one thing in the world Kulik would not doubt, it would be Abt. He looked upon Sasha, as autumn days look upon spring, fallen leaves look upon primrose.

Right then, Kulik only looked at Sasha with softened eyes and replied, “Sasha is a poet, and the Muse of a poet, necessarily and naturally, shall be a woman.”

Abt rose and exclaimed, “I do not need Elena Pavlova to give me hope – a pilgrim never seeks the fulfillment of desire in his belief. Could you demand wealth, power, or the temporal life from God? Nay, my dear Lyosha, dear Ilyushenka, worshiping God is a spiritual practice, and our souls only are the true gains.”

Said thus, this young innocent poet called out aloud to Evgeni ardently, “Zhenya, what do you think?”

Evgeni raised his head and met Abt’s vivacious eyes. Sasha, unlike the unpleasant Alexei, was the silent moonlight in a deep dark night, greeting everyone gentle and mild.

“I believe in God, but not in love,” Evgeni responded.

“You don’t have to ask that bumpkin, Sasha,” Alexei shouted, “let him wipe the floor clean first.”

“No, no, let Zhenya speak,” Abt went down and laid his hands on Evgeni’s shoulders, “you’re only sixteen, Zhenya, of Romeo’s age, and resisting love is as ridiculous as stopping roses from blossoming in spring.”

“In fact, I cannot image anyone who would rather sacrifice their life for love. Love is a joy, but death itself is the end of joy,” Evgeni replied honestly.

“Hey bumpkin, I am one of those who would die for joy – what a blissful end it would be to die a happy death!” Cried Alexei.

That’s because you are a maniac, thought Evgeni, you'd threaten me with a knife on my neck just for a taste of fresh cheese.

“Ilyushenka, come and speak some sense into this boy. It’s just too woeful to distrust love at sixteen,” Abt nudged Ilia Kulik’s shoulder.

This calm young man flushed a little, a trace of hesitance appearing on his visage. Lowering his head, he stammered, “For me, love is an answer. In this lengthy and weary life I often doubt: why would we live if we were doomed to die, if no standard answer could be applied to anything? Why would we drink? Why would we wed? Why should we be righteous? Why should we be loyal to our heart? Why should we step onward and not idle away the days? Why would we sing and write poems? Why would we need freedom? Why would we seek warmth and fear coldness? If a certain someone emerges into my life, this person’s existence itself should be an affirmative answer to all of my doubts. Yes, we must enjoy the best wine, must speak our vows, must be righteous and faithful, must proceed hand in hand, must sing our life aloud, must write our poems freely, must warm each other to endure the frigid winter. This person, the exclamation mark punctuating my life, the trail of answers responding to all of my questions, shall be my need and reliance.”

As Kulik finished his speech, the room was immersed in long-lasting silence. Moments later, Abt cheered and dashed to kiss Kulik’s cheek, “Today a new poet was born! O dear Ilyushenka, this is the best speech you have made ever since I knew you.”

 

The starry night sky extends limpidly above their heads when Elena walks out of the Holy Sophia Cathedral and sits back in her carriage. She looked at Evgeni, who sits in the shadow. The young sub-lieutenant asks, “Did God give you any response, my lady?”

Elena takes off her hat, and whispered, “No, Zhenya, God shall only accompany us to seek the answer.”

The wheels press upon the gauzy frost of autumn, leading the carriage across the deep night of Novgorod. Their journey towards the north continues.

 

Evgeni did not lead a pleasant life during his first month in the Academy. Thanks to that bet, the whole school was calling him “bumpkin.” He was always the last to enter the bathhouse, because the upperclassmen would beat him with towels; he was always left with the worst gun in training, and older students would pretend not to hit his stomach with their gunstocks. He felt the worst in the fencing class, in which all years gather together to train. Evgeni was outstanding in Military Geography, Statistics, Topographical Measurement, Chart Plotting, and Strategic Studies, hence, fencing became the best excuse for stronger kids to beat him up in public.

Evgeni initially thought that a dandy like Alexei should have been a total fiasco in his studies, but how wrong he was - Alexei always studied until midnight, and as long as the candle next to his bed was still lit, Evgeni would forbid himself from resting. A miserable battle started between them two, and every time it ended with Alexei hurling his book at Evgeni with a loud curse, either “damn bumpkin” or “get your shit back to your Siberian shithole”, and then grumblingly going to bed.

In fact, they fought every day and night, for a seat, for opening or closing a pair of windows, for a piece of cheese placed outside for too long, or even just for one expression on the other’s face. Even kids who beat Evgeni so hard that his ribs ached could not arouse such an immense fire of anger in him, but Alexei needed only to smash a plate on the ground, and both of them would start throwing the most vicious vituperation upon each other.

Alexei could not get on his feet, so he seize everything he could reach to strike Evgeni. He’d kill me as soon as his legs could carry him, thought Evgeni. Yet he was not afraid. Alexei was, in fact, the least intimidating among all those who brought him discomfort - he felt a surge of strange satisfaction every time he infuriated him, defeated him, raged him.

“You should cherish each other,” Abt sighed, after he witnessed the millionth battle between them, “Finding someone whom you can freely hate in this world is as difficult as finding whom you can freely love.”

(Main translator: edhelsindar)


	5. The Second Bet

I love such games,

when everyone is haughty and mean.

If only tigers

and eagles were my enemies!

Tsvetaeva, _A Savage Will_

 

Alexei Yagudin’s leg was getting better, and so did his pranks - instead of hurling stuff at Evgeni, he could now chase Evgeni around the room with his crippled leg in assistance. Despite the injury, he could easily pin Evgeni to the ground or the wall with his masculine build, but he seldom put strength into the actually hurting the annoying kid. Most of the time, it was twisting Evgeni’s arms, forcing him to the wall and cursing him, waving threatening punches that rarely landed anywhere.

But Evgeni knew that wasn’t because Alexei was kind in any way - Alexei despised him. He was too proud, too proud to even punch a sick kid from the country.

This noble arrogance flared Evgeni. He would kick and bite Alexei with all of his strength, infuriate him, and make him fight back. And every time without fail, Alexei would seize his throat, force him breathless, and then relax his grip and point to the bite marks on his hands, mocking him, “Zhenya, you’re not only a bumpkin, you’re a sissy.”

 

With days and nights of hard work plus some natural talent, Evgeni had eventually gotten better than many of the cadets who enrolled before him. But fencing class was still his worst nightmare. He was swift, but lacked strength. The older kids could still knock the foil out of his hand, and then slap him with their handle when the teachers were not looking.

As weird as it may sound, Evgeni was less afraid when Alexei started showing up in fencing class, because all of his fury and hatred had then found the perfect exit.

Alexei was, without question, the top of the class. He had the build, had the power, and had also received formal training since his youth. Posture perfect and techniques polished, he was even asked by the teachers to demonstrate movements in class.

Alexei was, without question, not going to let go of any opportunity to humiliate the “bumpkin”. He picked on Evgeni about everything - the way he held his foil, the distance between his legs, his posture as he leaped - and he corrected his movements like he would help a lady. He would put his hand on Evgeni’s waist, lift his sword hand and say, “Hey miss, push harder.”

And the cadets around them would roar in laughter.

Evgeni could then feel Alexei’s breadth behind his ears, his golden strays of hair by his cheek, and Evgeni would have pinched the bastard’s face if they were alone in their dorm, but now, he could only position the foil and stab harder.

At the end of class, Evgeni saw the bullies standing about Alexei, exchanging words in laughter. Alexei caught his eyes and raised his eyebrows, his elegant face twisted in a smirk.

Not even the Neva’s flood would have pacified Evgeni’s fury, and he rushed before Alexei, his cheek burning as he glared at the boy.

“What, Sissy?” Alexei laughed, “You wanna bite me, now?”

The older kids howled and made weird noises. Evgeni felt his sword hand tremble in anger.

Alexei clapped his hands and ordered, “Hey, make the circle!”

The cadets roared in excitement as they brought the mops in the classroom, dumping them on the ground to circle the battlefield.

Alexei picked up his own foil and threw a golden ruble on the floor, “Same old rules, you step out, you lose that ruble, and you clean the room, got it Sissy?”

The grounds were quickly cleared as the cadets clapped and whistled outside the arena, leaving Evgeni and Alexei in the center.

Evgeni stopped thinking, and brandished his foil towards Alexei. Posture and pace was beyond him now, and even Alexei had became only a dark shadow - the shadow of ridicules, of insults, of curses, of betrayal, of poverty, of everything he had resisted in all these years, and he wanted to defeat them, rid them, at any cost at all.

Alexei, on the other hand, was at ease. He dodged Evgeni’s patternless attacks with grace, switching the foil between his hands as he forced his opponent backwards.

The shadow pushed against Evgeni, overpowering his strikes, leaving him one more step away from the brim of this silly circle.

The Colonial's words rang in his head, “Zhenya, there’s no turning back now.”

Evgeni took a deep breath, straightened his back, and launched himself towards Alexei’s foil. Alexei yelled in surprise and let go of the foil, but the blade had cut into Evgeni’s shoulder, blood seeping into his cloth, and leaking onto the floor.

“Bumpkin-”, but before Alexei could finish his sentence, Evgeni had already pulled that foil out and charged towards him again. Alexei was forced back, now inches away from the edge. Directing the point of his foil at Alexei’s heart, Evgeni shaked his blond hair, gesturing Alexei to step out by himself.

Both hands up in surrender, Alexei lifted his left leg as he stepped towards the exterior. But then he raised his face up again, and ever so gently he called, “Zhenya.”

Evgeni made a sound of recognition and looked at him. Alexei was gazing at him with such honestly, pure and light as the winter sky; and his voice was ever so clear as it carried over through the sunlight and floating dusts, “I love you.”

Evgeni was only at a lose for a second, and he felt his whole body being knocked off balance and landing outside the circle, the wounds on his shoulder hurting as much as being hit by stern rock.

Alexei was gloating when he picked up the golden ruble, “Hey Sissy, go wipe the floor!”

And Evgeni did not hear the laughter from the crowds - he fainted from the pain.

 

Someone fiercely shaking his body wakened Evgeni. He opened his eyes to an impatient Alexei sitting by his bedside, shaking his shoulders as he grunted loudly, “Bumpkin! Sissy! Wake up, time to take your medicine!”

He wanted to retort but could not muster any strength. He eyed the white pills on the bedside table, and breathlessly complained to Alexei, “There’s no water.”

Alexei grabbed a bottle of wine instead, “Water.”

Evgeni felt the pain in his chest getting worse, and he could only clutch his chest and squeeze his eyes shut, “Lyosha, you bastard.”

He meant it to be an insult, he really did, but when it came out, it was more of an affectionate mumble.

Alexei stood beside and watched him borrow deeper into the sheets for a while, and then grumbling he left the room and threw the door shut. Minutes later, he brought back a cut of water and banged it on the bedside table.

Suffering from infection from his wounds and a resulting high fever, Evgeni rested two days more. While slipping in and out of conscious, he remembered Abt and Kulik visiting and so had Colonial Mishin. He also recalled Alexei bringing bread - his ill-tempered roommate stepped close, followed by the scent of morning dew and fresh-baked bread, and when their foreheads touched, Alexei’s lips were right above his, dotted by a few bread crusts.

Before Evgeni could react, Alexei moved away and grunted, “Hey bumpkin, your fever’s gone, good.”

Evgeni licked his lips, wanting to say something but Alexei had already grabbed the rag on the table and aimed at his face, “now go wipe the floor, bumpkin!”

Cadet Alexei Konstantinovich Yagudin and cadet Evgeni Viktorovich Plushenko were to wipe the classroom floor for violating the code of conduct. Since he also lost the bet, Evgeni cleaned the dorm for a month, again.

When Evgeni was well enough to get around, Colonial Mishin summoned him to his office.

“Zhenya, you’re making great progress, I’m proud that you’ve been taking lead in every subject, and I’m sure your father would feel the same.”

Evgeni stood straight as an arrow in the winter sunlight. The piled snow outside were melting as the scent of spring draw near, and he felt his heart growing light and bright as well.

Only when he was about to leave did the Colonial ask hesitantly, “Zhenya, do you want to switch roommates?”

Evgeni lifted his head, “No, he need not disappear before I defeat him.”

（Main translator: flournox)


	6. Chapter 6 French, Wine, and Night

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, "The night is starry

And the stars are blue and shiver in the distance."

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

\- “Tonight I can write the saddest lines,” Pablo Neruda

After competing with Alexei in fencing, Evgeni’s time became surprisingly better.

In the fencing class, he always clung tightly to Alexei; they slanged blatantly, bombarded each other, and were punished together. Every time Alexei clamored to pierce his throat with a sword, but Evgeni knew that he was merely talking. Alexei would not punch him unto the ground and smack him with the hilt as other kids did, but only fiercely strike down his sword and insulted him outrageously. This is a far more abhorrent and insidious act, thought Evgeni. Thanks to Alexei, other boys now called Evgeni not only “bumpkin,” but “pussy” as well. But then, they also privately agreed that “Alexei would be in charge of beating up that bumpkin,” and therefore never again bothered to make trouble for him.

Evgeni could run neck and neck with Alexei in most of the lessons, or even surpass him. But he could never exceed Alexei in French, however much effort he put in it.

Alexei had stayed since his birth for ten years in France before returning to Russia. He spoke French with pure delicacy and exquisite accent, perusing all French novels and poems that he could show off. He could decently cite Molière and La Fontaine, and could as well discuss about newly fashioned authors like Hugo. In the swelldom of St. Petersburg, a French love sonnet was a better recommendation letter even than roses, tuxedos, and gilded carriages – moreover, Alexei never lacked the latter.

He was the darling of the coterie of St. Petersburg. When the weather was getting warmer, invitations arrived from balls everywhere. Alexei during such times frequently disappeared from the dormitory. Sometimes he crept back into the room from the window at midnight, and sometimes he was carried back by Abbott and Kulik, usually dead drunk.

A drunken Alexei was even more annoying. He would suddenly seize Evgeni, reciting a French poem about half-day long, or grab Evgeni’s arms to dance a waltz round and round; he would sob loudly while throwing himself unto Evgeni, who was absorbed in his reading; he would fling Evgeni to the ground from bed and cuddle himself in the quilt. But as soon as he recovered from the ebriety, Alexei could not remember anything. Evgeni would, usually after Alexei was soundly asleep, maliciously throw all his clothes out of the windows, tie all his latchets into dead knots, or write “bastard” with ink on his face.

And then, with amusement, he would watch how in the next day Alexei, stripped all naked and staggering, attempted to beat him.

Customarily, Alexei would still beat Evgeni up after he settled himself, but Evgeni nevertheless was unwilling to give up these little tricks.

Until the flush of verdant grass and flowers flourished in the fields near St. Petersburg, the ball for the cadets was as well imminent. But Evgeni did not plan to attend: he had no clothes fit for the occasion, nor had he any intention to fawn on those noble ladies. The one who really got excited was Abbott, for he would see Elena Pavlova again, whom he always thought of. Abbott always knocked on their door at midnight with wine carried with him, walking back and forth before Alexei’s bed, face turning crimson, reading out loud his newly written poem. Kulik followed him behind reticently, watching Abbott becoming antsy with bloodshot eyes or calling out the name of his beloved lady to the springtime moon, and then responded to his enquiry gently: “Yes, Sasha, this is a beautiful line.”

Alexei would normally throw a damp over him: Poor crazy Sasha, if poem could move a woman, every man in the world would strive to become a poet. There are a billion women on earth, why do you have to ask the mercy of that arrogant little girl?

Abbott stumbled unto the floor: O Lyosha, you can never kiss all the billion women on earth.

Alexei laughed, filling himself with wine: Impossible indeed, but worth trying anyway.

Evgeni was reading book silently aside, listening curiously to these young men who were only a little older than he, who, drinking night after night, argued about love restlessly.

One night, Abbott claimed that he found the sticking point of why he could not come up with beautiful poems.

“Indeed, every day we are stuck in this narrow room, the moonlight can only shine through a corner of the window, and what we see is only this tiny garden in school. What a beauty is the St. Petersburg on a spring eve! The moonlit night on Neva itself is a poem. Lyosha, Ilyushenka, love needs to breathe, needs action, needs an adventure of a different sort – why should we snuggle each other in this small room here as if we were really good mannered students?”

Ardently shouting thus, he dashed in with violin on his shoulder, seeking the company of Alexei and Kulik in the quest of love.

“Zhenya, will you come, too? It is a sin not having stood under the moonlight for a beautiful lady at the age of sixteen.”

Abbott took Evgeni with the same fervor. Although Alexei protested vehemently, four of them still sneaked out of the school under the cover of the dark night, running along the Neva all the way towards the mansion of Elena Pavlova.

Evgeni did not know why he would agree to come out, but when he followed the three young men with the violin on their shoulder, running swiftly along the Neva on this spring night, watching a thin crescent hanging on the tree, sparse stars twinkling on the roof of the cathedral, fleeing stray dogs staggering alongside the street, and a crowd of wild cats leaping on the roof, all seemed to make sense now.

He had never seen St. Petersburg in the midnight, so tranquil that it was almost like an ancient and elegant prose.

The room of Elena Pavlova was on the second floor, near a yard with trees planted all over. The white curtains were dropped, and a potted mauve wild mallow was placed upon the window. The four men crossed the yard and came under a high mountain ash, the moonlight filtering through the slender leaves and falling on them. Evgeni watched the three older lads lifting up the violin under the moon, beginning to perform a melody brisk and pleasant, like a trail of silvery jingle bells ringing under the vast springtime starry sky. It followed that the stray dogs of the whole street began to bark, and the wild cats were making harsh noises upon the roof. The window on the second floor was opened, and a little girl with braided tress smashed that potted mallow at them. One by one, the light of every house in the whole street was kindled, with men’s grumble and women’s shrill curses coming in the air. The four of them started running back with full speed; people from upper floors continuously threw heavy objects at them. They moved and dodged between the fragments of mirrors and flowerpot, finally fleeing back to the bank of Neva, with mud all over them. Alexei was the first to laugh out loud, then Abbott and Kulik, and in the end even Evgeni could not help but smiling.

Alexei drew two bottles of wine from his pocket. They sat at the riverbank, facing the moon and the boundless water waves, and quietly passed the bottles around. Evgeni was terrible at drinking, he did not even need a third sip to make him dazzle. He lay silently at the riverbank of Neva, listening to the wind of spring night whisper beside his ears.

Alexei, who drank a little too much, started reciting a poem to the dark sky:

When on the dark Neva the star

Of midnight makes the water gleam,

When carefree eyelids near and far

Are overwhelmed with peaceful dream.

Abbott followed the verses, and continued to recite aloud:

The poet, roused with intellect,

Sees the lone tyrant’s’ statue loom

Grimly asleep amid the gloom,

The palace now a derelict.

After reading out loud the poem, Abbott stood up, crushing up all written poems that he had brought with him and throwing them all into the Neva. Then he turned around and said to Alexei: this is the real poem, isn’t it?

His voice was as calm and deep as the spring water pressed upon by stones.

Alexei smiled and cheers with him: for she whom we both love.

Abbott answered with the same smile: for Russia.

Half awake, half asleep, Evgeni suddenly felt a panic. The feeling of getting drunk was like falling into a dangerous world filled with happiness yet unable to control. He struggled a little, but eventually let his consciousness sink down to the abyss of drowsiness.

Evgeni could not remember very well what happened on the second half of the night. He dreamed an ordinary dream, in which Alexei came and shoved him, so he seized and bit Alexei’s wrist, and they had a fight again, almost stumbling into the river Neva. Alexei then clutched his throat; his handsome yet wild countenance was drawn close to his face, and then Abbott pulled both of them down.

Evgeni opened his eyes; he saw that the color of the sunshine was turning into golden brown, twinkling before him – that was Alexei’s hair right under his eyelid. Right now, Alexei’s breath was roaming around his neck calmly, as if it were measuring his pulse inch by inch.

If Lyosha woke up at this moment, he would snap my neck. Evgeni suddenly thought. He looked up, trying to push Alexei away, only to find Alexei had dragged one of his hands unto his chest, while his another hand was getting numb below Alexei’s trunk.

Alexei buried himself in the neck of Evgeni, clasping him tightly, and in the meantime slept so soundly as a rock deeply embedded in the mud, not moving an inch.

Even in Evgeni’s most horrible nightmare there could not be something more terrible. He lowered his voice and called, “Lyosha, Lyosha, Lyosha,” Alexei slightly lifted up one hand to stroke Evgeni’s hair, pat his face, and, as if he had done it a thousand times, caress him along the neck, a kiss with some intent to please, to woo. His lips were very warm, like the sun pressing its fingerprints alongside Evgeni’s neck. Evgeni was forced to hold up his head high and turned aside his face; Alexei pressed his hair to pull his head down, so Evgeni could not help but call out loud: Alexei Konstantinovich Yagudin!

Alexei was about to kiss his jaw, and instantly opened his eyes, staring hazily at Evgeni for some moment, a little perplexed. Evgeni shouted: get out of my bed at once!

Alexei looked around, and said slowly: this seemed to by MY bed, bumpkin.

Evgeni cursed incoherently, and at the same time struggled confusedly, attempting to pull his body away from that of Alexei’s. Alexei nailed Evgeni’s legs with his knees and seized the latter’s arms to drag him back to his grip, meanwhile cursing back in the same vicious languages.

They clasped each other yet at the same time swore that one another was the meanest, the most malicious, and the most narrow-minded rascal that they had ever seen.

Abbott woke up from the bed aside and witnessed this strange battle. He scratched his messy hair, and cried: my goodness, you too are really like my father and mother, who curse and hate each other all day long yet cannot bear even a moment of disappearance of each other from sight.

Evgeni hit Alexei’s face with his elbow: if Lyosha became a woman he would definitely be an ugly woman still.

Alexei grasped Evgeni’s arms and put them behind the latter’s back, and said ferociously just in front of the latter’s nose: if Zhenya were a woman, I would like to consider her a bit.

Both of them stared at each other fiercely, their bodies tightened: neither would give in the battle.

Until Kulik walked in with water and bread, he looked at the two lads tangling with each other in surprise, and asked: bless me, since when did Lyosha and Zhenya start getting on well with one another?

The whole day, Zhenya was not in a good mood. The scent of Alexei as well as that of wine was all over him. He spent a long time wiping the skin on his neck, but could still feel the temperature of that part higher than the skin surrounding it – a kind of disturbingly fervid heat remained.

Later, a legend came down in St. Petersburg: never play Beethoven’s Spring Sonata to your beloved at night.

 

(Main translator: edhelsindar)

**Author's Note:**

> The original story was posted in a anonymous Chinese forum, if you don't feel comfortable commenting there, feel free to comment here and we'll make sure the author sees it.  
> If you notice anything odd or off, please don't hesitate to point that out as well :)  
> English is not my first language(nor the other translators'), so the translation is not gonna go super fast, but trust me this story is totally worth the wait!  
> Lastly, many thanks to everyone who has helped with finding the poem translations <3


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